By Lisabet Sarai
He
may well be the love of my life, but I haven’t seen him in years.
Now I sit beside a hospital bed where he lies pale, still and swathed
in bandages. His chest rises and falls with his breath, but his eyes
are closed. He doesn’t see me.
Something
terrible has happened to him; I don’t know what. I hold his chill
hand, willing comfort across this fragile physical link. A terrible
grief overwhelms me. Sobs catch in my throat. I mustn’t cry. He
needs me to be strong.
****
I wake from the dream disoriented, but the sadness lingers. This is long ago, long before email. I call him when I can grab a moment, long distance, a rare indulgence back then. He can barely speak. His father committed suicide last night, he tells me. Under my sympathetic pain there’s a flicker of wonder.
****
She’s
a free spirit, my wild, artistic friend from California with whom I
drove a thousand miles across the frozen west one icy winter, in
order to spend New Years with our respective lovers. We’ve been out
of touch for quite a while, though, since I returned to the East
Coast. I know she has married a physicist, a deceptively normal guy
whose order balances her chaos. She makes her living as a freelance
journalist. She plays French horn in a rock band. She has a pet pig
and a female store manikin she dresses in retro clothes and poses on
her front lawn.
In
the dream, over coffee, she tells me she’s pregnant. I can hardly
believe that she would tie herself down with that sort of
responsibility. Of course I keep quiet, but inwardly I marvel at how
unlikely a mother she’d make.
****
Two
days later, I receive her email. She and Dan are expecting a baby in
six months’ time. She’s delighted but full of doubt. I am, too.
****
I’ve
always had vivid dreams, the sort that haunt you after you wake. My
dreams are like movies, with startling, brilliant images, exotic and
mysterious locations and compelling characters, often but not always
amalgams of people I know. Desire stalks me in many of my dreams;
more than a few of my stories have been born from my night time
visions.
I’ve
had lucid dreams, where I know I’m dreaming, dreams I can control.
In some of them, I have powers. I can fly. I have telekinetic
abilities. If I concentrate my will on an object, it will fly across
the room to my hand.
Yesterday
while I was working out, I tried this on one of my weights, which had
rolled away from my mat, out of reach. I wasn’t successful in
drawing it back to me. However, the problem may have been
insufficient mental focus or inadequate confidence rather than lack
of ability.
When
I was in grade school, I had a magic ring, adorned with a lovely
faceted garnet, my birthstone. The ring granted wishes. With enough
belief, I could cause a blizzard that would result in school being
canceled. No homework! I lost that ring somehow when I entered junior
high. By that time, though, my powers had shifted in new directions.
At
the student summer carnival, I dressed as a gypsy and told fortunes.
I’d studied the basics of palmistry, so I could identify the
various lines. The process was anything but analytical, though. When
I gazed at someone’s upheld palm, my predictions started to flow. I
have no idea where the notions came from, but my clients seemed
impressed.
And
did the events I foretold come to pass? Of course I don’t know. As
with the recalcitrant hand weight, I could be deceiving myself about
the power I felt. Then again, maybe not.
My
father told fortunes. He could read palms, tea leaves, crumpled
paper. Once, at a party, I’m told that he read someone’s future
in the bumps on a pineapple. We all laughed at this story, but his
tight-lipped smile whenever someone brought it up made me wonder. He
had a first cousin who made her living as a psychic.
Could
it be that I have magic in my blood?
Could
that be true of us all?
I
do believe in magic, in the ability of mind to shape the material
world. Too many of my desires have come to fruition for me to doubt
that truth. The things we label as paranormal, in my view, are simple
demonstrations of the fact that reality is a malleable construction
of our collective consciousness. Our perceptions shape the world. We
change our world by changing the way we see it.
All
that sounds easy, but of course it’s not. Mystics and yogis have
perfected techniques for controlling the mind and hence the world,
but most of us only pierce the veil of illusion occasionally, as in
my prescient dreams. I think it’s a mode of consciousness, not
something to be achieved via intention or effort. My dreams reveal
truths only about people with whom I have strong emotional
connections. Love, not reason, is the origin of magic.
I’ve
explored this view a bit in some of my stories. Right now I’m
working on a story about a trio of witches. Two of them are aware of
their power; they’re in the process of initiating the third. I
don’t usually publish excerpts from works in progress, but this is
so relevant I’ll make an exception.
****
“Come,
sit.
Across
from
me,
that’s
right.
We’re
going
to
play
a
game.”
“A
game?
What
kind
of
game?”
Memories
of
high school spin-the-bottle
flashed
through
Emmeline’s
mind.
I
wouldn’t
mind
kissing
Beryl,
she
mused.
Or
Marguerite
either.
She’d
never
been
attracted
to
women
before
– at
least
not
consciously
– but
now
the
notion
seemed
almost
natural.
“Cards,”
Marguerite
answered.
She
lowered
herself
to
join
them
on
the
floor,
tucking
her
legs
underneath
her,
then
placed
an
over-sized
deck
in
the
center
of
the
triangle
formed
by
their
bodies.
An
intricate
design
decorated
the
back
of
the
cards,
full
of
stars
and
planets,
fanciful
animals
and
twining
vines.
The
illustration,
plus
the
size
of
the
cards,
led
Emmeline
to
expect
a
tarot
deck,
but
when
Marguerite
turned
over
the
top
card,
it
was
an
ordinary
three
of
hearts.
“Take
a
good
look
at
this
card,
Emmy.
Fix
it
in
your
mind.
Close
your
eyes
and
visualize
it.”
Card
tricks?
Spin
the
bottle
sounded
like
more
fun.
Brushing
the
thought
away,
Emmeline
did
as
Marguerite
instructed.
“Can
you
picture
it?”
“Yes.
Of
course.”
“Now
open
your
eyes.
I’ve
hidden
the
card
somewhere
in
the
deck.
I
want
you
to
find
it.”
“Don’t
be
silly!”
“I
think
you
can
do
it,
Emmeline.”
Beryl
fixed
her
with
that
penetrating
green-gray
stare
of
hers.
“Concentrate.
Send
your
mind
out
seeking
that
three
of
hearts.
Listen
until
you
hear
it
call.”
“Please!
I
don’t
have
any
kind
of
psychic
abilities
or
anything.”
The
two
women
stared
at
her,
focusing
on
her
face.
Their
scrutiny
sent
hot
blood
climbing
into
her
cheeks.
“Aside
from
a
couple
of
strange
dreams
that
seemed
to
predict
the
future...
Honestly,
I
can’t.”
“I
believe
you
can,”
said
Marguerite,
her
voice
rich
and
sweet
as
whipped
cream.
“You
can
if
you
try.”
“Do
it
for
me,
Emmeline.”
Beryl
leaned
forward.
Her
blouse
gaped
at
the
neckline,
revealing
the
symmetric
curves
of
her
bare
breasts.
Emmeline’s
own
nipples
snapped
into
aching
knots.
“But...”
“Emmy.”
She
heard
authority
in
Beryl’s
voice,
power
that
had
been
cloaked
until
now.
It
simply
wasn’t
possible
to
refuse.
“Okay,
okay...”
Emmeline
shut
her
eyes
once
again
and
summoned
the
image
of
the
card.
Some
force
tugged
at
her
hand.
At
first
she
tried
to
ignore
it,
but
as
the
pull
grew
stronger,
she
gave
in.
With
the
three
of
hearts
blazing
behind
her
closed
lids,
she
reached
for
the
deck,
gripping
it
with
her
thumb
and
forefinger
about
a
third
of
the
way
down.
She
cut
the
cards,
laying
the
part
of
the
deck
she’d
removed
on
the
floor.
When
she
opened
her
eyes,
a
ten
of
clubs
lay
at
the
top
of
the
deck.
“You
see?
I
told
you...”
Marguerite’s
voice
was
almost
inaudible
“Look
at
the
bottom
card
of
the
stack
you
removed,
Emmeline.”
She
flipped
the
pile
over
to
reveal
the
three
of
hearts.
Fear,
excitement
and
lust
washed
through
her
in
alternating
waves.
She
pushed
the
exultation
away.
“It’s
just
random
luck,”
she
said,
wanting
but
not
daring
to
believe.
That
force,
that
attraction
– she’d
imagined
it.
She
was
suggestible
– Richard
had
always
said
so
– and
these
two
women
had
formidable
wills.
“Try
again,”
Beryl
urged.
The
two
of
spades,
the
Jack
of
diamonds,
the
ace
of
hearts
– she
found
them
all,
one
after
the
other.
The
pull
of
the
card
she
sought
grew
stronger
each
time.
“What
does
it
mean?”
she
asked
at
last.
She
sounded
small
and
scared
to
her
own
ears.
“Let’s
try
something
else
first.”
Marguerite
drew
a
card
from
the
deck,
gazed
at
it
for
a
moment,
then
placed
it
face
down
in
front
of
her.
“Tell
me
which
card
I
just
picked.”
The
answer
came
to
her
almost
before
the
tawny
beauty
had
asked
her
question,
with
no
effort
at
all.
“Four
of
diamonds.”
“Now
me.”
Beryl
selected
not
one
but
three
cards,
setting
them
out
in
a
row.
“You
know
what
to
do,
Emmeline.”
The
messages
weren’t
so
clear
this
time.
She
felt
as
though
several
different
people
were
shouting
in
her
head.
Images
of
cards
flashed
by,
too
fast
and
indistinct
for
her
to
decipher.
“I
don’t
know,”
she
whimpered.
“I
can’t...”
Beryl
seized
her
by
the
wrist
across
the
gap.
Power
jolted
through
her.
The
pictures
snapped
into
focus.
“Nine
of
spades,
six
of
clubs,
Queen
of
hearts.
Oh
my
God...”
Marguerite
gathered
Emmeline into
her
arms
as
the girl burst
into
ragged
tears.
****
Of
course I identify with Emmeline. It would be scary to discover
irrefutable evidence of one’s own magic powers.
But
thrilling, too.
